Tharion finished his report to the River Queen, his fin holding him steady in the current of the river depths. She lounged among a bed of river oysters, long fingers trailing over the ridges and bumps.

“So my sister has a fleet of ships that elude the Asteri’s Omega-boats.” The waters around them swirled, and Tharion fought to keep in place, tail swishing hard.

“Only six.”

“Six, each one the size of the Comitium.” Her eyes flashed in the dim depths.

“Does it make a difference?” He’d had no choice but to tell her everything—it was the only way to explain why he’d returned without Pippa Spetsos in tow. Or at least answers regarding Emile Renast’s whereabouts.

“Do sisters not share everything?” She dragged a finger along the jagged edge of an oyster and it opened, revealing the pearl within. “They mock me, with these ships. They suggest I am not trustworthy.”

“No one said anything like that.” He clenched his jaw. “I don’t think they’ve told anyone else.”

“Yet this Commander Sendes saw fit to inform you.”

“Only of the vague details, and only because we stumbled onto her ship.”

“They rescued you. They could have let you drown and kept their secrets, yet they saved you.” His blood chilled. She would have let them drown. “I want you to find out everything you can about these ships.”

“I don’t think that will be easy,” Tharion cautioned.

“Who is to say my sister won’t use them against me?”

She rules the oceans. I doubt she wants one stupid river. But Tharion said, “That didn’t seem to be on anyone’s mind.”

“Perhaps not now, but I wouldn’t put it past her.”

He refrained from telling her she was being paranoid. Instead, he tried his best weapon: diverting her attention. “Shall I continue hunting for Emile Renast?”

The River Queen eyed him. “Why wouldn’t you?”

He tried to hide his relief that she’d pivoted with him, even though he knew she’d return to the subject of the Ocean Queen’s ships soon enough. “Even with the ammo and mech-suit prototype destroyed, Pippa Spetsos just became a lot more powerful—her position in Ophion has changed. Capturing her, interrogating her … We do that, and we risk having Ophion deem us enemies.”

“I do not care what Ophion deems us. But very well.” She motioned to the surface. “Go Above. Find another way to collect the boy.”

“As you will it,” he said, bowing in the current.

She flicked a hand in dismissal. “I shall make your excuses to my daughter.”

“Give her my love.”

She didn’t answer, and Tharion made a beeline to the surface and open world above.

He’d finished tugging on the clothes he’d left in a nook of the quay near Moonwood’s River Gate when wings rustled on the walkway above him. He peered over the stone rim to find Athalar standing with crossed arms.

“We need to talk,” said the Umbra Mortis.

Ruhn stared at the witch-queen. At his bride.

Hypaxia Enador was as beautiful as he remembered: luxurious, dark hair falling in soft curls down to her slim waist; brown skin that glowed as if moonlight ran beneath it; large, dark eyes that noticed too much. Her mouth, full and inviting, parted in a lovely smile as she stepped into the foyer.

The witch touched a knot in the wood on her broom. It was a stunning piece of art: every inch of its handle carved with intricate designs of clouds and flowers and stars, each twig in the base carved as well and bound together with golden thread.

But with the touch on that knot, the broom vanished.

No, it shrank. Into a golden brooch of Cthona, the earth goddess ripe with child. Hypaxia pinned the brooch onto the shoulder of her gauzy blue robes and said, “A convenient bit of witch-magic. I found that carrying a broom around the city is … cumbersome. And attracts the notice of many. Especially a broom such as mine.”

“That is … really fucking cool,” Ruhn admitted.

She began to answer, but her eyes slid to the dragon sitting at the foot of the stairs, and she stopped. She blinked once before turning to Ruhn. “A friend?”

“Yeah,” Ruhn lied, and then Flynn and Declan and Ithan were there, sprites in tow, gawking at the queen.

Ithan cleared his throat, likely at the stunning beauty of the witch.

Ruhn hadn’t been much better when he’d first seen her. Yet she’d hardly given him the time of day at the Summit. Even if she’d helped out majorly during the shit that had gone down in this city. Had been willing to fly here to help save its citizens—and Bryce.

Ruhn straightened, remembering himself. That he was a prince, and owed her the respect due to her rank. He bowed deeply. “Welcome, Your Majesty.”

Flynn smirked, and Ruhn threw him a warning glare as he rose. “Allow me to introduce my … companions. Tristan Flynn, Lord Hawthorne.” Flynn sketched an irreverent bow—a mockery of the one Ruhn had made. “Declan Emmet, super-genius.” Dec grinned, bowing with more gravitas. They’d both been at the Summit when Ruhn had formally met Hypaxia—as a queen, and not the medwitch he’d believed her to be—but had never officially been presented to her. “Ithan Holstrom … wolf,” Ruhn continued. Ithan gave him a look as if to say, Really, asshole? But Ruhn moved on to the sprites, the dragon. “And, uh, our guests.”

Hypaxia gave the dragon another wary glance. Flynn stepped forward, slinging an arm around Hypaxia’s shoulders. “Welcome. Let’s talk about all those times Ruhn tried to talk to you at the Summit and you ignored him.”

Declan chuckled, taking up a position at Hypaxia’s other side. She furrowed her brow, as if the two males spoke another language entirely.

The queen seemed to note the details of his house as she was escorted to the sectional. His disgusting, beer-soaked house. Solas, a half-smoked mirthroot blunt sat in the ashtray on the coffee table a mere foot from Hypaxia.

Ruhn said to Ithan, Get that fucking mirthroot out of here.

Ithan lunged for it.

Not right now! When she’s not looking.

Ithan caught himself with that sunball player’s grace and relaxed against the cushions as Hypaxia sat, nestled between Flynn and Declan. If Ithan had to pick one word to describe the queen’s expression, it would have been baffled. Utterly baffled.

Ruhn rubbed his neck, approaching the couch. “So, ah. Good to see you.”

Hypaxia smiled in that wise, knowing way. Fucking Hel, she was lovely. But her voice darkened as she said, “I’d like to have a word with you. Alone.”

Ithan rose, subtly swiping the mirthroot from the table. “Room’s yours.

We’ll be upstairs.”

Flynn opened his mouth, presumably to say something mortifying, but Ithan grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him up, shoving the mirthroot into the lord’s hands. The sprites fell into line behind them as Declan joined the fray, and then they were all gone, Ariadne stalking up the stairs after them. Ruhn had no doubt they’d try to eavesdrop.

He took a seat on the stained, reeking couch, reining in his cringe as Hypaxia adjusted the folds of her blue robes. “So … how are you?”

Hypaxia angled her head. She didn’t wear her crown of cloudberries, but every line of her radiated grace and calm and care. She was about fifty years younger than he was, yet he felt like a whelp in front of her. Had she known her fiancé lived in a place like this, had a lifestyle like this?

“I wanted to ask you for a favor.” Ruhn stilled. She went on, “I’ve come to Lunathion for the mating celebration in a few weeks. I’ll be staying at the witches’ embassy, but …” She twisted her hands, the first sign of doubt he’d ever seen from her. “I was wondering if you might spare me an escort.”

“Why? I mean, sure, yes, but … everything okay?” She didn’t answer.

Ruhn asked, “What about your coven?” They should protect their queen at any cost.

Her long lashes bobbed. “They were my mother’s coven. It was one of her last wishes that I inherit them, rather than select my own.”

“So you don’t like them?” “I don’t trust them.”

Ruhn considered. “You want me to give you an escort to protect you from your own coven?”

Her mouth tightened. “You think I’m mad.”

“I thought witches lived and died for their loyalty.”

“The loyalty of these witches began and ended with my mother. She raised me in isolation—from the world, but also from them. My tutors were

… unconventional.”

It was the most they’d ever spoken to each other. Ruhn asked, “In what way?”

“They were dead.”

A chill went down his spine. “Right. Necromancer stuff, huh?”

“Enadors can raise the dead, yes. My mother summoned three ancient, wise spirits to teach me. One for battle and physical training, one for mathematics and sciences, and the other for history, reading, and languages. She oversaw my magical training herself—especially the healing.”

“And this freaked her coven out?”

“It estranged us. My only companions while growing up were the dead. When my mother passed, I found myself surrounded by strangers. And they found themselves with a queen whose unorthodox education unnerved them. Whose gifts of necromancy unnerved them further.”

“But you’re the last Enador. Who would they replace you with?” “My sister.”

Ruhn blinked. “The Hind?”

“Lidia has no witch gifts, so she would be a figurehead. She’d wear the crown, but my mother’s general, Morganthia, would rule.”

“That’s insane.”

“Lidia was born first. She is the spitting image of my mother.” Hypaxia’s father must have passed along the genes for her darker coloring,

then. “Even while I was growing up, I sometimes heard whispers from my mother’s coven wondering if … perhaps Lidia should not have been given away.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re more comfortable with a half-shifter than a half-necromancer. They fear the influence of the House of Flame and Shadow, though I have sworn no vows to any but Earth and Blood. But Lidia is Earth and Blood, through and through. Exactly as they are. They loved my mother, I have no doubt, but they have different plans for the future than she did. That became apparent by the end.”

“What sort of plans?”

“A closer bond with the Asteri. Even at the cost of our relative autonomy.”

“Ah.” That was a potential minefield. Especially considering the shit that he was doing for Ophion. Or had been doing for them—he had no idea where they stood now, after Ydra.

Hypaxia went on, “Your kindness is why I’ve come here. I know you to be a male of bravery and dedication. While I’m in this city for the Governors’ celebration, especially with Lidia in town, I fear my mother’s coven might make a move. They presented a unified front with me at the Summit, but the last few months have been strained.”

“And since we’re technically engaged, it won’t be seen as a declaration of your distrust if I send one of my people to look after you. It’ll be deemed some protective male bullshit.”

Her lips twitched. “Yes. Something like that.” “All right. No problem.”

She swallowed, bowing her head. “Thank you.”

He dared to touch her hand, her skin velvety smooth. “We’ll take care of this. Don’t worry.”

She patted his hand in a Thanks, friend sort of way.

Ruhn cleared his throat, glancing at the ceiling—the distinctive, worrisome thumping coming from it. “Since you were raised by ghosts, I’m hoping you won’t mind having a bit of an unorthodox guard.”

Her brows rose.

Ruhn smiled. “How do you feel about sunball players?”

No one bothered them, but plenty of people stared as Tharion and Hunt meandered through the ornate water garden along the river in Moonwood, a hundred rainbows glimmering in the mists around them. Tharion loved this part of the city—though the Old Square’s grit still called to him.

“So what’s up?” Tharion said as Athalar paused beneath a towering elm, its leaves shimmering in the spray from a massive fountain of Ogenas lounging in an oyster shell.

The angel pulled his phone from a hidden pocket in his battle-suit. “I had a meeting with the Governor.” His fingers flew over the phone, presumably summoning whatever the information was. He handed it to Tharion. “She had me go over some of the latest demon reports from Nena. I wanted to pass them along to the Blue Court.”

Tharion took the phone and scrolled through the photos. “Anything interesting?”

“That one. The tail—just out of the shot here.” Hunt pointed to the picture, face stony. “It’s a deathstalker.”

Even the burbling fountain beyond them seemed to quiet at the name. “What’s that?”

“Lethal assassins bred by the Prince of the Pit. He keeps them as pets.” Athalar’s wings rustled. Had a shadow passed over the sun? “I’ve only dealt with them once. I’ve got a scar down my back from it.”

If the encounter had left Athalar scarred … Cthona spare them all. “One was in Nena?”

“Three days ago.”

“Shit. Where did it go?”

“No idea. Report says there’s been no breach of Nena’s borders. Tell your people to be alert. Warn your queen, too.”

“I will.” Tharion glanced sidelong at the angel. Noticed that they weren’t near cameras or other people. “Any further updates?” Tharion asked carefully.

“Maybe,” Hunt said.

“I thought so,” Tharion said. The warning about the demons seemed true—but also a convenient cover.

“I know where Emile is,” Athalar said quietly. Tharion nearly stumbled a step. “Where?”

“Can’t say. But he’s safe.” Athalar remained grave despite the beauty of Moonwood around them. “Call off your search. Spin some bullshit to your queen. But you’re done hunting for that kid.”

Tharion surveyed the angel, the mist beading on the gray wings. “And you think it’s wise to tell me that you know where he is?”

Hunt bared his teeth in a feral smile. “You going to torture it out of me, Ketos?”

“The thought had crossed my mind.”

Lightning licked across Hunt’s forehead as he motioned to the fountains, the water all around. “Not the best place for a lightning fight.”

Tharion began to pace. “The River Queen won’t give up. She wants that kid.”

“It’s a dead end. And a gigantic waste of your time.” Tharion arched a brow. Hunt said, voice low, “Emile Renast has no powers. His sister staged things to make it seem that way, hoping that arrogant Vanir like us would find the kid important enough to look after.”

Something glimmered in Athalar’s face that Tharion couldn’t place.

Pain. Sorrow. Shame?

“And I’m supposed to take your word for it,” Tharion said. “Yeah, you are.”

Tharion knew that tone. The merciless voice of the Umbra Mortis.

“I can think of only one person who’d make you this intense,” Tharion drawled, unable to resist. “Legs knows where the kid is, too, huh?” He laughed to himself. “Did she arrange this? I should have seen that coming.” He chuckled again, shaking his head. “What’s to stop me from going to ask her some questions?”

“Hard to ask Bryce any questions when you don’t have a head attached to your body,” Hunt said, violence glittering in his eyes.

Tharion held up his hands. “Threat received.” But his mind spun with all he’d learned. “Let’s say I do trust you. Emile really has no powers?”

“Not even a drop. He might be descended from a thunderbird, but Sofie was the only one with the gifts.”

“Fuck.” The River Queen would be livid, even if she’d been the one who’d ordered him to spend weeks on a wild goose chase. Hel, she’d be pissed that he hadn’t figured out the truth sooner. “And the intel?”

“Kid knows nothing.” Hunt seemed to consider, then added, “He confirmed that Danika and Sofie had contact. But nothing else.”

Tharion dragged his hands through his still-wet hair. “Fuck,” he said again, pacing a step.

Athalar tucked in his wings. “How badly is she going to punish you for this?”

Tharion swallowed. “I’m going to have to spin it carefully.” “Even though none of it is your fault?”

“She’ll deem it a failure. Rational thinking is second to her need to feel like she’s won.”

“I really am sorry.” The angel tilted his head to the side. “Any chance she’ll fire you and let that be that?”

Tharion let out a humorless laugh. “I wish. But …” He paused, an idea sparking. He glanced up and down the sun-baked concrete quay. “Who says she has to know today?”

A corner of Athalar’s mouth kicked up. “As far as I know, you and I met up to swap status reports.”

Tharion began walking toward the city proper, the hustle and bustle that set his blood thrumming. Athalar fell into step beside him. “It could take days to learn that Emile isn’t worth our time. Weeks.”

The angel winked. “Months, if you do it right.”

Tharion grinned, a thrill shooting through his bones as they entered Moonwood’s tree-lined streets. It was a dangerous game, but … he’d play it. Milk every second of freedom he could from this. Stay Above as often as he liked, so long as he checked in Below every now and then. “Got any ideas where I can crash?”